


The Golden Lion

by Arithanas



Category: The Bletchley Circle
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-28
Updated: 2014-04-28
Packaged: 2018-01-21 01:50:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1533251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arithanas/pseuds/Arithanas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean receives a telegram and that message brought memories.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Golden Lion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [amoama](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amoama/gifts).



> My gratitude to [Whovie](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Whovie/pseuds/Whovie) for the beta work.

_Love can do much, but duty more.  
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe_

Millie saw her over her glass full of whiskey; those eyes were deep and curious as if their owner were unable to contain the surge of nosiness brought by that little piece of cream, cheap paper, delivered just moments ago at her desk in the library.

“I’m not going to open it here,” Jean said, playing the part of the stern librarian to the end.

“I’m not asking you to,” Millie replied and winked to Lucy, who smiled innocently, as if she were unable to believe in an intrinsically wicked world. “But not even the Queen could forbid me to speculate on its contents.”

“This is not a product of a cypher, but you are welcome to try,” Jean said as she raised her tea cup.

“Well, technically, it is,” Lucy replied, her tone practical, like she used to do when she repeated the information stored in her wonderful brain. “It just happens that we humans are able to read the key without any help.”

Jean smiled to her and nodded. Lucy always needed all the validation she could get. “Is there any news of Susan?”

* * *

The telegram had to wait.

The girls went after tea, but she still needed to fulfill her duties at the library. It waited patiently inside Jean’s wallet while she made her way to her flat. After last year’s adventure, she must admit, even to herself, that her spirit rested better once the solid oak door was firmly closed behind her.

Only after she changed into a comfortable pair of slippers and a nice cup of hot tea was brewed did she sit down and give her undivided attention to the piece of paper. She was about to read a message that was carrying kiss from the past.

HELP ME FIND THE GOLDEN LION STOP

That was it. Not a word more. There was no need for it.

It was a silly pun, yet somehow its meaning was kept a mystery. Jean sometimes wondered if there were lots of golden lions scattered on French soil because their safe places were widely respected, except for two or three incidents related to human error.

The golden lion usually was a nondescript house with the bare minimum of commodities, just enough to allow an SOE the time to rest and to wash, a small oasis of safety on occupied ground. Those are supposed to be left vacant, but love birds are often a bird without a nest.

Leisurely, Jean sipped her tea, closing her eyes while trying to evoke memories of times past. A horrible time, and yet the best part of her life; when she was young, intrepid and fool. The smell of petrol came first, feeding the lamp to light her while coded messages unwind in a long string of dots and dashes, the rhythm steady, the strong measured lilt of the metal, all of that wrapped in the inscrutable binomial of woman and machine, both parties to a conversation carried out in a sensual, private language. The spectators could appreciate the art behind the process. It was no wonder that radio operators were compared to pianists.

The flickering flame, the dancing lights on the mildew stained walls of the derelict mansard, on the unblemished face of the young nurse and SOE-in-training, on her golden hair... The mind of Jean pursued a different course after another pair, another rhythm, after a different cadence to that produced by metal parts in contact.

Jean smiled, her lips quivering a bit at the end of it, mostly by desire.

Real art was never made for the greedy eyes of the public. It didn’t rely on the thunderous applause to be proof of human ability to create beauty. Beauty is the tips of the fingers painting complicated designs with sweat on silk like skin, hands shaping smooth curves, lips tasting life from a hungry mouth, a body fashioning a perfect arch in the throes of passion…

Beauty is the sight of a golden lion.

Her fingers reached for the telegram, her eyes reading the line again, her mind wandering towards the golden lion she had lost in France.

Jean despised her childish lack of judgment and her hand crept to her right thigh.

There were no words to excuse neither her behaviour, nor her youth or her feelings, not even lust would be pretext enough to explain why they used that particular golden lion with that frequency and recklessness. And yet, those were the only arguments she could provide, here on her own secluded flat: a young heart full of love, unable to be governed by a head full of lust.

They fell upon them before they had time to get comfortable, to embrace each other. Instead of feeling the lips of her lover on her skin, she felt the hot caress of lead on her leg. Instead of her warm arms around her, a cold hit against the floor. Instead of her voice calling Jean’s name with a gasping voice, it was the sound of her practical shoes running to safety.

Jean was sure she was going to die, right there, not at the hands of the enemy, but drowning in betrayal.

She returned to the small golden lion, with guns, with men, with the fury of a wounded panther.

She saved Jean’s life.

As Jean’s leg began to heal, it became evident to them. They couldn’t be together; they were too close, too careless, too foolishly in love with each other to mind their duties. The last time they were together tasted like the salty water of the English Channel, that soon became the barrier between them.

Jean got word that she married a small bureaucrat. People knew they were friends and were always ready to offer the latest news. She knew when they stayed in France after the war.

Yet, the telegram was there, asking for a safe refuge, but was that the only thing she was asking for?

Jean was giving the upsetting question its due consideration when a visitor came to her, pouncing to her lap with velvety paws and big green eyes. It purred its welcome with fawning tones that never failed to provide him a morsel of Jean’s dish.

“What is your opinion, little chap?” Jean asked, scratching the cat’s ear as it purred its complacency. “Well, in any case, we must keep the girls outside this little mystery.”

The cat mewed and Jean smiled. This would be secret she would feel like exploring.

 

 


End file.
